In LA, it seems like every woman I meet is in their post-bananas phase.

Apparently, I’m a magnet for recovering drug addicts, alcoholics, and sluts on the mend. I never catch a “girl gone wild” whilst she is in the throes of “going wild.” It seems that I meet them after, like, the first marriage, the second STD, or the third abortion. I’m like a Bizarro world ‘Good Luck Chuck.’

My first week in LA, I’m on a date at a restaurant with this girl — let’s give her a nonsensical name like Margaret Nolan. Things were going pretty well. She was very polite and demure, even wearing slick professional slacks and glasses. Suddenly, she dropped THIS bomb: “I went through a really, really slutty phase where my life was all about cocaine and threesomes. That lasted for awhile and ended when… actually, just a few weeks ago. Isn’t that a coincidence?! Now we can date and really get to know each other as people for a few months before we get to be intimate. Ooops! There’s the check. I’m going to the restroom again.” (Okay, I’m paraphrasing here a little bit but that was the gist of it).

So, once again, I was stuck with a sphincter-puckering West Hollywood dinner bill, this time from the shi-shi STK. I felt like I was paying off a home equity loan.

After dinner, I drove her home, convinced that my night was going to end with me in my tighty whiteys watching Sports Center. I was imagining myself with tortilla chips on my chest, whining, “I wish I had TiVo; I’m sick of these ShamWow commercials!”

These thoughts were roiling around in my brain when we reached Maggie’s apartment. But then she dropped bomb number two: “Look, Bill, I really want to sleep together, but not ’sleep’ together.”

In other words, she wanted to sleep in the same bed with me but not have sex. Coincidentally, that’s what I wanted to do… except the exact opposite.

Despite years of experience telling me it was a bad idea, I decided to come in for a ‘night cap at least.’ Oh pretenses, how I loathe thee. Anyway, within sips we started getting a little friskalicious. Then she started crying.

That’s right… crying, with the tears and the head shaking and the sniffles and the hyperventilated speech.

Now, most guys have gotten with a woman on the rebound or with a broken heart and have experienced (once things got hot and heavy) the crying jag. It’s not unusual. As a matter of fact, this situation was commonplace — I was completely naked except for my cape, sock puppet, and tube of Crisco – so I knew how to handle it. I got dressed and held her and stroked her hair because I was raised to be a wimp.

Unfortunately, my penis and her emotional state were still having a Mexican stand-off. I didn’t want to be a dick and pressure her, but my dick was like: “So what? I AM a DICK. Let’s do this! I don’t have all minute!” She could tell I was frustrated, but trying to be ‘understanding.’

“Sorry,” Margaret said.

“It’s okay. Just a little case of blue balls,” I responded.

“Haha. Blue balls are a myth! Don’t pull that crap!”

That’s what she said… so I killed her.

ONCE AND FOR ALL: it’s not a myth, ladies. Women who think that it is a fictitious condition are simply wrong. That’s like the misogynist doctor in the 1950’s who was like: “Female orgasm – impossible! Doesn’t exist!” Both happen all the time – and yes – both are faked most of the time (in my unfortunate personal experience), but they do happen!

Since I can’t explain the female orgasm, let me explain, ladies, SCIENTIFICALLY, the phenomenon that is BLUE BALLS:

1. Little sperm are swimming around in the testes bumping heads, bored, restless, and playing goofy sperm games, like ‘Boogle.’

2. SUDDENLY — some juicy couture starts happening upstairs and a SHARP BATTLE ALARUM GOES OFF! Not an alarm, an Alarum! The brain starts sending more and more signals down to the balls, who tell the sperm that it’s on like Donkey Kong.

3. The sperm start running around in a panic getting ready. They stretch a little, affix their helmets, and say their last goodbyes to the balls.

4. The millions of agitated sperm cells start crowding into the lobby of the vas diferens and wait for the elevator to the urethra to open.

5. Some of the sperm are impatient and they start pushing the UP button repeatedly even though they KNOW you only have to push it once! (Why do people and sperm do that?!)

6. The retarded spermatazoa (they exist, you know) start causing traffic jams and screaming for their teacher. All the retarded sperm really want is candy. This annoys all the other sperm.

7. More fervent brain signals come to the balls, which makes the elevator door to the vas diferens open. The sperm all crowd in like little Tokyo businessmen late for work.

8. The crowded elevator is vibrating with a bunch of angry, alternately scared and excited sperm. They’re psyching themselves up waiting to shoot out for their one single mission in life to finally, and ultimately, come to fruition… YES! YES!

9. Suddenly, the elevator stops and starts descending back to the lobby.

10. When the sperm get unceremoniously dumped back out into the lobby — they are beyond pissed off! Some are literally pissed out. In frustration, they scream and flagellate and punch the balls in protest for the next 4-5 hours like riotous Iranian revolutionaries.*

I didn’t have time to explain this to Margaret. Instead, I bit my lip, gave her a hug, and told her I would call her again real soon. I didn’t. Not because ‘he’s not that into you’ science fiction, but because I knew that any 30 year-old woman who thought blue balls was a ‘myth’ was never going to understand men.

I wish I did, I would get revenge. I’d give her the equivalent — purple pu$$y or violet vagina or lavender labia or turquoise taco. I would take her to the Beverly Center to go shopping and tell her to get anything she wanted. After she clapped and jumped up and down like a mongoloid spotting a bowl of Jolly Ranchers, I would hand her my credit card.

When she went to grab it, I’d quickly pull it back and say “Wait, I think I want to get to know you a little better first…”

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*I hope this clears up some stuff for the ladies. But, more importantly, guys, it’s important to know that the above explanation will never, ever persuade any woman to alleviate said blue balls.

This entry was posted on Tuesday, June 30th, 2009 at 2:19 pm and is filed under All blog entries. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.